art music poetry #84

A shark and a space shuttle?

A shark and a space shuttle?

Each Day Complete Now
6 January, 2002, #4

Yellow springs to red:
Three week beard bristles under
Turtle-brass glasses.
Heaving chest attests to valiant days
Spent loving life, yet
Yearning for another shot.
Each day complete now.

Tufted gulls scream out:
“My food not yours.” New chicks chirp
In Palms, aware that Mom
Has won again, enough to feed them.
The clank of dredge barge
Snaps thoughts back to you, brother.
Each day complete now.

Blue, gray, white, unite
At constant horizon, soft
Even liquid here
On the patio, never the same,
Tears ever present,
The years flip by like pages past,
Each day complete now.

art music poetry #83

a rare one in one color.

a rare one in one color.

Fourteen Ninety Two

She wants three times more than she gets, but does
not know how to get it. They laugh when he tells
of performance art beyond the capacity for most to
understand. She glitters her face in accordance to
artistic norms. He comes in sneakers carrying twenty
new paintings rolled up, a heavy load strapped underneath
nap sack, twisting lumbars out of place. Broken toes, at
least a sprained knee and a crushed ego do not slow him
down in his quest to make a great art show. She uses him
like a pawn in a death-match with her best friend. He was
called to rescue her from beer, but when he stayed a friend
long enough to witness the war, he was his own sword
slicing away by trying to stay friends with both. They love
to point out how great it all could have been if he had stuck to
the plan, been more plyable, more relaxed, more able to pick
one, drop the other. But he doesn’t drop friends just because
they treat each other miserably. He laughs at the next comparison,
that Yoko Ono is the “Picasso of Japan,” is she even the Yoko Ono
of performance art? We get to sit and talk about what happens
continents away. “What if Europeans never discovered America?”

art music poetry #82

Gruber-Clark picked this one.  It also got play in an NC newspaper once.

Gruber-Clark picked this one. It also got play in an NC newspaper once.


Moody gray barely
makes contrast
against white-bright sun.
On the quad
you might miss a bench,

or palmetto on fog filled
days that, though rarely lasting
past noon, mark time in
brains both atrophied by hearts.

You stayed. Roanoke
fit you, gave
more than it took, meant
people cared,
your complete life, a

full swing at
everything: video, art,
music, religion, howling
on moon walks, peering
over the edge, under the

star, at lit
ants snaking through seven-hill
valley. Where
have all the protests
gone, what inspires enough?

your talent past meds sir Ed.
You lend a
hand, guide when you can,
nurse those unrepaired

psyches around you and have
yet to get back what
you deserve.
Doesn’t a local ballpoint come
right out and

scream for you to write
again? You write it, I’ll push
it. Heron
Two is in
Russia’s library

now; if we keep trying they
may yet let us bash
down the door
for a flurry of public,

readings, an award
from this or that high
council on
the state of
poesy? Or to die

trying, that’s
what I say. I have a
son, so there’s
a chance these words will
live on a while, but

you sir, need
to crank it up again, and
soon. If not
for personal gain,
to help those in pain.

art music poetry #81

Pelican at take-off with Chick

Pelican at take-off with Chick

Tang Quest I – V

Red morning wind kicks
leaves over vegetable cage.
Felled white oak patiently
absorbs blade after blade.

Chunked wood magically
stacks upon self, against mud.
Sawdust darkens. Winter rain
slows work, allows love time.

Pond refills, frightened turtle
relaxes. Cool December water
welcomes geese and herons
to rolling clay-built hills.

Man and woman join; new
child cries, coos, sleeps.
Six point buck stops, observes,
moves slowly out of view.

Fog lifts, sun creeps past
logs, warms three thousand
trees, sixty moons past white
buffalo’s birth. Bonus time.


Colorful turkeys gather
under lit moon; feathers
diffract beams to cedars
lined, two rows; historical
trees whose dead branches
dangle predictions at pond’s
edge. Three run to flight,
circle, drop back, contrive,
spread; anticipate coming of
spring. Winter rain cuts fog.
Hilltop oaks sparkle when
wind pushes limbs through
ethereal mist sent down to
visit this New year’s Eve.


Hair-bellied bull
stands. Dainty tied-foot
girl spreads parasol.
Protrusion emerges from
hair; pillow placed,
fantasy or farm boy
hovers, slogs. Heavy
mud slows progress.
Results equal effort:
parasol quivers, wind
stiffens, girl rolls, wakes
inner spirit, follows
heart-made trail
to pastoral life.


Respected grandfather ties
green maple branches,
nails joints, rakes
leaves onto compost,
works tools vigorously,
reads after dinner,
speaks less than one
paragraph per day.
He is bent over:
seventy-eight years
translating, teaching, gardening.
Happiness, not out of reach,
but produced by
simple living.


Watching ladybugs,
tuning to zen movement,
could transform one
overindulged son-in-law.
First he must learn to
separate men’s and women’s
tasks, no easy lesson
for western man.

Art Music Poetry #80

Picked by Eduardo Lapetina as a good one

Picked by Eduardo Lapetina as a good one


The city of bouncing hair comes alive in winter
As the usual joggers, on display, pick the most
Crowded roads to work out on. Hair of every
Imaginable color flips side to side above bodies that,
To the naked eye, appear to be perfect already.
Jog on young damsels, and perhaps one day
Just the right Benz-driving law student will
Holler out his window as he flashes by. Then,
Two days later, same street, same time, he’ll return,
Dressed in gym shorts for the first time in years,
To jog in hopes of “accidentally” running into you.
Strategic jogging calls for catching you right at the
Corner of Franklin and Boundary as the light turns
Against your ability to flee. Then, in a moment
Of rapture, fully out of breath, he runs-in-place
And pops a question. “Jog here often?” To which
You smugly answer, “Not really,” which sets in motion
A blossoming crocus of late February, followed by many
Dogwood afternoons in March, the quick iris rush of April,
And magnificent magnolia May. By June, other moons.

Art Music poetry #79

Blood Clot.  A Blood Clot or clots can really mess up your life.  be careful folks.

Blood Clot. A Blood Clot or clots can really mess up your life. be careful folks.


The Meadow

The meadow’s grains flow in the breeze
While birds fly up above.
The leaves are turning in the trees
And lovers are making love.

The wild asparagus has gone away,
The corn is turning brown.
But this is where I’m going to stay
Because I’m feeling down.

If someone would come with me,
If someone would really care.
I’d take them up and we would see
That chestnut thoroughbred mare.

And we would pick some long tall grass
And throw it at each other.
And we would watch the summer pass
Being friends with one another.

My dearest friend I will not lie,
I love you very much.
But like the elusive butterfly
You are much to nice to touch.

art music poetry 78

#1524 "Another Pet"

#1524 “Another Pet”

Chilly Day

Here you are, and here they are: in camouflage on a weekend

furlough, scoping out the wide variety of female talent.  From

rank amateur to well-played skeptic, the ladies walk by until the

rest of the local unit falls in to form a posse of seven.  Is it a

typical Sinae-day?  No.  The coffee/pastry shop, usually packed

on Saturday is down to two of us.  No one, I mean none of the shop

walkers buys anything.  Today’s parade is bagless, an early sign,

like snow-poking crocus, of a springtime of heartbreak.  Human

desire keeps us on the same course, even if stripped of buying.

We want to mingle, so here come the expats, some lonely, others

paired up.  Another sleepless year is a sure bet.  Productivity only

matters if you are producing food.  Bunned hair atop mega-hottie

stands, pink rose in hand, waiting a while then moving west,

searching for the idiot who caused her boredom.  The brown dog

held by the crazy man, gets away, pees on an astro-turf carpet,

enrages the shop manager, is swept up and flees with its homeless

master.  Twitching, greasy-haired, dark-skinned landmark is on the

run again.  Maybe he finds a warm place to sleep.  Someone did up

his hair in corn rows so it doesn’t get scraggly.  Walkers veer away,

he’s seen it for years.  They could learn survival from him, but don’t.